Gryff saw her touch one of the blades on her forearm. He had seen her touch them in moments of idleness, her fingertips rubbing over the letter stamped at the base when she was lost in thought. She cherished them, and she had already lost one on this journey.

“Would you trade a pie for entertainment?” he asked the old man suddenly.

That was how they found themselves, an hour later, with a crowd of onlookers placing bets on what the fair maiden could hit with her knife. She did not like it as much as she had when she’d shown her skill in the privacy of Hal’s yard, but she did not object. Gryff was careful to stay close to her, gathering all her winnings into a basket he bought for the purpose. He kept it in easy view so that she might say when she had enough.

In the end, there was a small pile of coins, food enough to last them a week, and a few too many admirers for her comfort, or his. Only one man was fool enough to reach out for her as she walked away, his voice urging her to stay while his eyes held a greedy, lecherous look. Gryff moved swiftly between them and stamped his boot on the man’s foot. His own hands were full, but he would drop everything if he must and take up the knife at his belt. He did not need to do more than look at him for a long, hard moment before the man slunk away.

“Will you teach me that?” asked Nan as they walked away from the market. She had pulled a meat pie from the basket and was licking the juice of it from her lips.

“Teach what?” he asked, attempting to tear his attention from her lips. He seemed to spend most of his days pleasantly distracted by the sight of her mouth, and his nights more than distracted by the feel of it.

“The way you looked at him.” She said it with her mouth full, and swallowed before continuing. “You looked like the king himself, and would throw him in a tower or have his head on a pike. But it’s calm-like, not full of temper.”

His father had had that look, and his grandfather too – the eye of Arawn, they called it in his family, likening their belligerent pride to the pagan god of the Welsh underworld, gathering souls with a glance. He almost said as much to her, almost told her how the bard had stood beside the great open hearth and sung the legend of Arawn, how his brother Owain had loved it best of all the poems, how Gryff was the only one of his brothers who did not quail when their father gave that fabled look.

He did not say any of it. They were dead. He could never be that person again.